


Brighton Morning

by thinkpink20



Series: Virginity [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part three in the 'Virginity' series</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brighton Morning

Lestrade's life goes on as it always has done; he goes to work, ventures reluctantly to the supermarket and puts a wash on. He bends over on the landing near the washing basket and sorts the lights from the colours, gets annoyed when he can't work out what to do with the grey stuff and then just throws it all in together anyway. If his shirts are all slightly pink next week, he can't bring himself to care.

It's odd how life just mundanely goes on, despite everything. 

He learnt the cruelty of that after Hannah died, the almost defiant way life keeps waking you up, propelling you into another day to show you it just doesn't care what sort of a mess you're in. Life is like a bulldozer, ploughing on regardless with it's cold eyes turned away from whatever it is you're suffering.

This week it's an uncomfortable mixture of embarrassment, foolishness and a vague sense of want. He has to admit that's actually a lot better than bone-piercing grief, though.

It has been approximately seventeen days since he last kissed Sherlock Holmes. But he's honestly not counting. Honestly.

Lestrade isn't sure how it happened but one simple night (and one considerably less simple morning) seem to have put a dent in just over six years of being a bachelor. Somehow less than twenty-four hours of company has made his life seem utterly empty again, though he's genuinely not sure how. The house seems even more quiet, the bed seems even less filled.

He hates this. It feels like weakness.

When he's in the supermarket on the fourteenth day, lingering too long in front of the milk because his mind is caught up (again) with embarrassment about the whole thing, he overhears a little girl and her mother not far behind him.

"I can't get to the milk, mummy!" The little girl says. "That old man's in the way."

It takes Lestrade a second to realise she means him. An old man. Great. Even the small children of the world are against him now.

He tries not to shuffle as he moves away.

The stupid thing is that he's had one night things before, casual dates and none of them effected him like this. There was even that woman, three years after Hannah went, set up by her sister - that lasted nearly four months. It was stunted and strange and the sex was _awful,_ but it didn't make him feel this lonely when it ended.

Maybe that was _because_ the sex was so awful. Perhaps it's just a physical thing - a bodily reaction. He feels like he knows a fair bit about them now.

Thankfully the ribbing at work hasn't been too bad; he can silence them with a look most of the time, and Donovan knows when not to push him. He still sees them smiling at him in furtive way sometimes though, like they think his life is all sexual gymnastics now and an array of interesting positions on the kitchen worktops. He isn't quite sure how to put them right.

At night he just goes to bed with his John Grisham, decides it's too much like work and hunkers down underneath the covers, willing himself to sleep.

Though frankly when that comes it's never exactly pleasant - the dreams have started up again. Dreams about Hannah, the cruel ones that persuade him he's not really asleep but awake and that she's still alive and everything's fine. Then he wakes up to an empty bed and pushes his face into the pillow to get rid of the moisture that springs unbidden into his eyes. He hates those dreams, was more than a little grateful when they buggered off the first time around and he doesn't want them back. He fingers his wedding ring in meetings with the Super, horribly aware that he was never very good without Hannah around, always a colossal mess. Though he _had_ thought he was getting better, slowly. 

Obviously not.

Work has been quiet too. Well, not _quiet,_ exactly; the usual mess and melee of shootings and robberies and bloody petty criminals but nothing _big._ Nothing Sherlockian. 

So Lestrade simply hasn't had an excuse to call. He knows it's not his place, he knows what happened was a one-off. He knows Sherlock has John, if he needs a friend. No one _needs_ a colleague, not like that.

So now it's been seventeen days, and apparently he's not beyond _willing_ a serial killer or a gruesome mystery. Which makes Lestrade hate himself slightly more.

He's eating his lunch by himself in the canteen on the seventeenth day, glancing at the newspaper in front of him with unfocussed eyes when Harrison leans in through the heavy, swinging door. 

"Sir?"

Lestrade looks up, wipes a smear of bolognese sauce from his chin. "What?"

"Someone downstairs to see you at the front desk."

The smell of the rapidly cooling food in front of him lures Lestrade into frowning. "Can't it wait?"

"Urgent apparently, Sir - it's that smug one with the hair; Holmes."

Lestrade almost drops his fork.

"Right," he stutters. "Be there in a second."

Somehow his heart rate has managed to accelerate threefold in the last few seconds and he realises idiotically that he's shaking. Lestrade has been willing this meeting for the last two weeks and yet now it's here he finds himself strangely reluctant to move from his hard plastic cafeteria chair. As he gets up and crosses the room his shoes make noises on the squeaky, sticky floor that seem overly loud to his ears. He's sweating slightly, underneath his shirt.

As he takes the stairs down two floors (going slightly too quickly, jittery) Lestrade finds himself wondering if he looks alright, suddenly ashamed of the shirt that _did_ go pink in the wash. He pulls his jacket together, smoothes down the back of his hair and finally pushes the door into the reception.

Sherlock is standing at the front desk, impatience screaming from every pore. He's playing with those leather gloves of his, pulling them off and tugging them back on. Lestrade can't work out whether that signals nerves or not.

Before he's had a moment to watch however, Sherlock notices him and ploughs into conversation.

"I need access to a flat in Brighton."

"...Right," Lestrade replies. "Have you tried ringing up the landlord?"

"Yes," Sherlock answers impatiently, glancing over Lestrade's shoulder as though searching for someone more competent. "He says he won't let me in unless I rent the place."

Lestrade frowns. He's imagined this first meeting with Sherlock many times since that morning in the shower but somehow he never quite imagined it to be this strange and confusing. "And you want me to...?"

"I don't know, put some pressure on him, break his legs, whatever it is you policemen do." Sherlock's eyes finally stop darting all over the place and rest on Lestrade for the first time since their conversation started. He looks... almost guilty. Then he frowns, clearly struck by something. "What's wrong with you? You look like a tramp."

Feeling his face colour, Lestrade looks down. Coffee. On his tie. And a subtle trace of bolognese.

"Piss off," he replies, ignoring his embarrassment to look Sherlock firmly in the eye. "And I'm not a 'policeman', I'm a DI in case you'd forgotten." He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "And we haven't broken any legs since the 1970s, as far as I know. I'm not your _guard dog,_ Sherlock - what the hell do you want the flat for anyway?"

He's still fidgeting with those leather gloves and Lestrade begins to wonder if it really is nerves.

"I've got a case, I need to monitor activity on the house next door."

"Right, so it's a police matter?"

"No! I don't want you fools bumbling in there and messing it all up."

Okay, so it's _not_ nerves. He should have known better. Clearly wishful thinking.

"Brighton's not my jurisdiction," Lestrade says, feeling vaguely like he wants to do this all again, start from the beginning. "And calling us all fools isn't the best way to get me to help you."

Sherlock's eyes narrow like a hawk and watch him for a second, considering. Then he pulls his ace card. "Fine then, don't come to me next time you need help solving a case. I'll be busy."

Lestrade sighs, glancing down at the floor and then resignedly back up. Sherlock is looking aloof and superior and... yes, bloody beautiful. A cluster of curls falling into his eyes reminds Lestrade of hair wet from the shower and he gets an ache in his chest that he finds he can't even pass off as sexual. 

Damn.

"Alright, fine - what's the address?"

"Fourteen Steine Gardens, landlord's a Mr Vikram Sharma. I need four days access at least, possibly five, starting tomorrow."

Lestrade sighs. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes. And I may have... annoyed him slightly. He might be a bit tetchy."

"Dealing with you, how could he be anything else?" Lestrade shouts, but Sherlock is already out of the door and away, eager to be somewhere else. 

And there's a sinking in Lestrade's stomach that has _nothing_ to do with the prospect of a tetchy landlord.

 

\-----------------------

 

Following Sherlock's lead and dispensing with formalities, when Lestrade phones him later that night he flies straight into the conversation.

"Hello?"

"I got you access, though it's four days at the most." He steps aside on the street to let a loved-up and hand holding couple pass then continues on into the cold London night. "I don't know what you said to piss him off but it seems Mr Sharma really doesn't like you."

Sherlock's voice when he replies is smooth and slightly vacant, as though he's busy with something else. "He's simply too sensitive, I merely mentioned that being so overweight can't be good for his health."

Walking along the dark Westminster street, Lestrade rolls his eyes. "If you've never met him how do you know he's so overweight?"

"Prolonged dyspnea when answering the phone."

"Dys-what?" Lestrade asks, huddling further into his coat as the harsh November wind hits his cheeks.

"Shortness of breath," Sherlock sighs, as though explaining to a three year old.

"Well people don't often like being told they're too fat by strangers. By anyone, in fact."

"I was merely trying to help."

"I'm sure," Lestrade replies, then braces himself to drop the bombshell. "There were a few... conditions, though."

"Conditions?" Sherlock's voice is sharp. The line goes utterly silent and Lestrade can sense he's paused whatever else it is he's doing.

"You're going to have to pay him for the nights you're staying there, and no loud parties, noise, any of that stuff."

Sherlock makes an indignant huffing noise down the phone.

"And... I have to stay there with you."

There is the blank crackle of a mobile phone with bad signal and Sherlock goes so long without speaking that Lestrade almost asks if he's still there. But eventually, he speaks.

"He doesn't trust me?"

"Apparently not, or you just annoyed him so much he wants to make life difficult for you."

"Fine," Sherlock replies. "When he comes to let me in I'll tell him you're travelling down later, he'll never know."

"He'll only give the keys to me. And he's going to make twice daily visits, to check I haven't let you destroy the place."

He isn't sure how he ended up not only agreeing to spent four days in a small house with someone he had an uncomfortable sexual encounter with but also trying to _persuade_ said person to go along with the plan. When it was all their mess in the first place. 

Really only Sherlock could create this sort of situation.

"Fine. Bring a book, I'll be busy."

The line goes suddenly dead and Lestrade stops carelessly in the street with his phone still to his ear. After a second or two someone bumps into him and he moves aside. "Sorry," he mutters to the angry tourist. He doesn't know what else he expected from Sherlock - not a thank you, thank you would be hoping for far too much - but not complete disinterest in his presence, either. 

Lestrade realises on a chilly Westminster street that even though he hadn't known it, he'd been hoping this might not _really_ be one-sided.

 

\--------------------------

 

He packs a small bag when he gets home, in preparation for the next day. Dimmock is taking over his cases for four days, the Chief unable to say no to the leave given Lestrade hasn't had a day's holiday in nearly two years. He isn't quite sure what he's doing, agreeing to go along just to make Sherlock's life easier; he could just say no, let the landlord deny access. He has no doubt Sherlock would simply get his evidence for his case from somewhere else, use some other poor rotten soul to find it.

But actually Lestrade _wants_ to be the one Sherlock uses.

And he doesn't think about that too deeply. It's a worrying sign, like an unusual lump or starting to forget your own address. It can't mean anything good.

To try and get an early night Lestrade attempts to comatose himself with television, watching anything that's on. He spends fifteen minutes on an old re-run of _Open All Hours_ before he realises he has no idea what has been said or why Granville is stuck halfway up a tree, and he eventually changes the channel. He lands on _Eastenders_ and consoles himself that at least his life isn't as depressing as this.

The thing is that essentially his first reaction to seeing Sherlock standing in reception this morning was desire. Which by itself wouldn't be too bad; finding someone you've already had sex with good looking is a pretty normal thing, almost a logical progression. However, going out of his way to be polite to an angry landlord and taking time off work to spend four nights under the same roof as Sherlock isn't _just_ an indicator of desire. And neither is being unable to shake off the supposed casual nature of their previous encounters. He realises that even being a widower in his forties doesn't stop him from doing stupid things. Stupid things like developing feelings for asexual geniuses. 

And _god,_ that's a depressing thought.

Maybe they're going to have to write him a part in _Eastenders_ now.

 

\-------------------------

 

They didn't arrange to travel down to Brighton together, so Lestrade takes the car and gets there just before twelve, when he's supposed to meet Mr Sharma. Sherlock is nowhere to be found, not draping that perfect carcass over any benches along the seafront or waiting at the corner of Steine Gardens for him, so he assumes he'll be along later. As long as this wasn't some sort of elaborate ruse to get him to have a holiday.

"Your friend is very rude," Vikram Sharma says, as he hands over the keys. Lestrade smiles as politely as he can.

"I'm sorry about him."

"He made comment about my size."

"Yes, I know - I'm really terribly sorry."

Sharma checks Lestrade's I.D. once again, seemingly unable to believe he is who he says he is. 

"Alright, you have the house." 

He sounds distrustful, even through his lack of English vocabulary. He squints at Lestrade in the early autumn daylight, rings heavy underneath his eyes as though he's seen far too much of life. Or not enough. "You are less rude than your friend, at least."

"I try to be," Lestrade replies as Sharma walks away, shaking his head.

He only realises once he's gone that he never thought to correct him about the 'friend' thing.

The house inside is freezing from a lack of regular heating and the rooms are all pretty much bare; in the kitchen there is a small stove and a kettle but that's where the facilities stop. And in the living room there is just one chintz armchair, abandoned some time in the late fifties by the look of it. Upstairs is even worse, two bedrooms but no beds save one mattress on the floor in the front room. It's stained slightly at the corner and Lestrade tries not to think about what made it that way.

At least the water runs hot and the electric is on. He has no idea what he's doing here, huddling over the little electric heater he found in one of the wardrobes, and he's five minutes away from getting back in the car and going home when suddenly an impatient fist raps on the window.

"You took your bloody time," Lestrade says as soon as he opens the door. Sherlock frowns at him casually and glances around.

"How homely."

"Yes, and it's fucking freezing, no gas for the heating." He stops when he realises Sherlock doesn't have anything with him. "Where's your bag?"

"What bag?"

"The bag with your things in it."

Sherlock ducks his head quickly into the kitchen then springs out again. "John's bringing it," he says casually.

"John - " Lestrade falters. He feels a sinking in his stomach. "John's joining us?"

Sherlock heads up the stairs, his coat swirling in his wake and Lestrade follows him. "No," he replies, voice distracted whilst he explores the rest of the house. "I dislike carrying things; I left it at Baker Street. He'll bring it along." 

They end up in the back bedroom, looking out of the window. From here you can see into the yard of number twelve, innocent clothes fluttering on a make-shift washing line despite the brief spatter of a rain shower.

"You're making him come all the way down from London because you don't like carrying a bag?" Lestrade asks, glancing sideways at Sherlock. In profile, his features look absurdly beautiful. Lestrade tries not to notice.

"The journey will keep him busy," Sherlock mutters, as though it's of no consequence, then he points down into next door's garden. "Do you see that bike against the wall?"

Lestrade drags his eyes away, looks down. "Yeah, what about it?"

"Note what time it's owner leaves."

"What?" Lestrade frowns, turning as Sherlock swirls from the room. "Where are you going? Sherlock?"

The slamming of the front door rattles right through the tiny house and Lestrade swears. He doesn't even have a chair to sit on whilst he waits.

 

\-----------------------------

 

Sherlock returns just as it's getting dark. Thankfully, he's brought food with him.

"I thought you might be complaining," he says, and throws a small bag onto Lestrade's lap. "What time did the cyclist leave?"

In the fading light, Lestrade squints at the bag. "These are pork scratchings, Sherlock."

"Are they not edible? What time did he leave?"

"Three thirty," he replies, opening the bag. "They are, I suppose, but it helps if you're very drunk." Lestrade holds them up in offering.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "They smell like an animal."

"That's because they _are_ an animal," Lestrade answers, getting up from his position on the floor. It's always more of an effort these days. "Why are we watching the cyclist, anyway?" The crisp pieces of roasted skin crackle in his mouth.

"Not important," Sherlock mutters. "Has John called?"

"No, why?"

"He's angry about the bag issue," he replies, glancing once more out of the window. The washing has been taken in from the line and a small child's plastic car is currently being lightly rained on outside the back door. Other than that, it's all perfectly silent and still.

"I'm not surprised."

Just as he is about to complain about being left here all afternoon to monitor a house with no explanation as to why, Lestrade is cut off by Sherlock speaking again.

"You can go now, you're not needed."

He has to admit that cuts slightly deeper than it usually would; he's always been somewhat immune to Sherlock's inhumane ways on account of the fact that if you don't care you can't get hurt. Something appears to have altered in the plan along the way, however.

When Sherlock goes on ignoring him, watching next door's empty garden as though there is an Alan Bennett play going on down there, Lestrade gives up. "Right," he says. The pork scratchings seem to have turned to ash in his mouth, despite how hungry he was.

When he realises he has nothing left to say, he goes.

 

\-------------------------

 

The seafront has that slightly despondent air of all promenades out of season, and Lestrade turns his collar up against the chill and the light spots of rain. Someone walking a dog says, "Good evening," to him and he's reminded in that institutionalised way how human life is outside London. It's slightly like a culture shock, and he realises he's spent far too long doing nothing but going between work and bed, work and bed.

The fact he's followed Sherlock down here is absurd. Lestrade knows he should go home, just abandon Sherlock to the wrath of Mr Sharma tomorrow morning; the chances are he won't throw him out anyway. Sherlock can put on a show better than the rest of them, claim Lestrade died in the night or something dramatic. He wouldn't put it past him.

But despite the fact they've exchanged no more than a handful of words since Sherlock arrived here, still Lestrade can't bring himself to leave. He _wants_ to stay. Which maybe makes him a masochist, he's not sure. He'll have to google it to confirm. 

Feeling embarrassed at his own vulnerability he finally finds a shop that is still open and picks up a few things, essentials he never thought to bring (why he thought the place would be fully stocked, he doesn't know) like bread and milk and coffee. He gets some ridiculously over-sugared cereal and decides that if he's going to be ignored all week then he might as well rot a few teeth doing it. He also buys wine, because he doesn't have enough cash for the bottle of single malt waving at him temptingly from behind the counter.

Lestrade has been back at the house almost half an hour (no sound from Sherlock upstairs and he's been told once he's not needed so he doesn't call up) when there is a knock at the front door. He leaves the relative comfort of the armchair in the front room to answer it, putting down his glass of red and the newspaper.

It's John. He has that look of the absolutely fuming, the look people often tend to wear around Sherlock.

"Is he here?" He asks. His voice sounds tight, like a grenade waiting to go off.

"He's upstairs," Lestrade replies, letting him in from the rain. "I think, at least. I haven't heard from him since I got back."

"Well you can tell him - " John growls, words spitting like bullets. Then he visibly tries to calm himself. "Tell him I'm not his _bloody_ batman."

"Ah, John!" Sherlock calls, breezing down the stairs. He still has his greatcoat on, and Lestrade feels sightly smug that at least he's feeling the cold up there too. "How delightful to see you."

"I'm - " John stops himself again. Lestrade can see he's on a short rope. "I was supposed to be spending the week in Norfolk with Sarah, Sherlock - you _know_ that."

"Yes," Sherlock replies, checking the contents of the bag. For unexploded bombs, presumably. "You can thank me for saving you from the horrors of Norfolk another time, if you like."

"I'm supposed to be meeting her _family,"_ John says through gritted teeth. "And now I'm late."

"You're not staying?" 

Lestrade doesn't miss the fact that Sherlock looks slightly alarmed. Those sharp, perfect features mask emotion admirably but he's watching for it so he catches the brief flash of unease in Sherlock's eyes. Something unpleasant blooms in his own chest. Great.

"Oh sorry, did you have more luggage you wanted me to distribute around the country? Edinburgh, perhaps? The Orkneys?"

The biting sarcasm in John's voice almost causes Lestrade to wince. He feels like he's witnessing a fight between Burt and Ernie. If he's being honest, in the last two weeks he's spent an unhealthy amount of time wondering what it must be like to be the great John Watson, the only person ever endowed with Sherlock's friendship. 

It's starting to look less glamorous than he imagined.

"No need to be sarcastic, John," Sherlock says, as though he's above such indignities himself. "Did you warn Mrs Hudson not to answer the door to any Arabian men with knives as I requested?"

Lestrade frowns at him and catching the look, Sherlock simply shakes his head - you don't want to know.

"Yes, she says having you as a tenant is more trouble than her husband ever was."

"How pleasant," Sherlock smiles, and it's the quickest, most fake smile Lestrade has ever seen. 

"Right, if I can be allowed to leave now?"

As John goes back to the door Sherlock drawls in a lazy fashion behind him. "It's Norfolk, John - they all have eleven toes and low reading ages; do try not to marry any of them."

"Chance'd be a fine thing," John mutters. "Bye Lestrade."

"Yeah, see you," Lestrade nods. 

When the door shuts behind him it seems to echo right through the house. It's more silent in there than it's ever been, after the quick back-and-forth of voices.

Sherlock takes his bag and heads silently back towards the stairs - in a rush of wishing not to be left immediately alone again, Lestrade speaks. "Don't you want anything to eat?"

"Not for me, thanks," Sherlock replies.

"Drink?"

A voice echoes from halfway up the stairs. "I'm fine."

And then Lestrade is left alone again in the drafty front room. The patchy old armchair stares at him accusingly from next to the fan heater, and he wishes he was just clever enough to get in the car and drive home again.

Instead, he goes back to his paper.

 

\---------------------------

 

Lestrade wakes up nearly eight hours later to find it's coming light outside. The paper that had been sprawled across his chest when he fell asleep is now folded on the floor beside him, the crossword he'd been working on completed in a different hand with a different pen. Next to his own neat letters are jagged ones, skipping outside the boxes like a spider crawled over the page.

He blinks blearily around him; no sign of Sherlock.

From a lack of anything else to do he gets comfy again, shuts his eyes. It's been weeks since he's been able to sleep unbroken without dreaming. Now he's just catching up. 

 

\--------------------------

 

Sherlock comes downstairs at just after midday; he's wearing a different shirt to yesterday and his hair is slightly more tousled but other than that he shows no signs of not having slept. Or having finished Lestrade's crossword during the night.

"You want some breakfast?" Lestrade asks, already on to dinner. At the very back of one of the cupboards he found a tin of corned beef still in date. He's currently helping himself to a sandwich.

"Not hungry."

"And still monosyllabic, I see," Lestrade mutters, eyes not straying from the letters page of the newspaper. He's been out and bought a new one. No massive explosions or serial killing during the night in London. Still no reason for him to go back.

"I'm working," Sherlock says, helping himself to coffee from the pot just brewed. He must have smelt it. "I never eat when I'm - "

"Working, yeah I know," Lestrade finishes. When he's met with silence, he looks up. Sherlock is staring at him. "What?" 

"How do you know that?"

"I've _observed,"_ Lestrade replies. "You're not the only one who does that, just the only one who makes a fuss about it." He licks his finger carefully, turns the page of the newspaper. "Mr Sharma popped in this morning."

"His usual cordial self, was he?" 

"He seemed slightly surprised the place was still in one piece, actually."

"Good God," Sherlock sighs. "How predictable; what does he think we're doing in here, exactly?"

"I don't know, some sort or orgy presumably," Lestrade replies, then pauses uncomfortably mid-turn of the newspaper page as he catches Sherlock's eye. There is a brief, painful window of time where they're both obviously thinking the same thing and then mercifully Sherlock looks away, high spots of colour on his cheeks.

"I need to go out later but also need the arrival and departure of the cyclist noted again."

Lestrade glances at the obituaries and then looks up. "Are you asking for my help?"

"Well you're not doing anything else, are you?" Sherlock indicates the paper, seemingly having trouble maintaining eye contact after the orgy comment.

"Of course not; I've only taken four days off work to enable you to squat in this place, clearly I'm not doing enough to aid you. Maybe I could go up there and wait at the freezing window for you now?"

Sherlock blinks with disinterest. "That won't be necessary. Though I will need some money later."

Lestrade almost splutters - would do, if this were a cartoon - then sighs. Maybe _this_ is what it's like being John Watson. "How much do you need?"

"Your card, preferably."

Sherlock meets his eye then, and it's that usual cold stare but... something else as well. Lestrade realises he doesn't know him well enough to tell what it is. Though perhaps no one does.

Resigned, he sits up slightly to grab his wallet from the back pocket of his trousers. Flipping it open he finds his Visa card and hands it over. "The PIN is - "

"It's alright," Sherlock says, "I already know."

"You - " Lestrade frowns. "You know my PIN number?"

"Predictable," Sherlock explains. "Hannah's date of birth."

Stunned, he finds he has nothing to say. It _is_ Hannah's birthday. He's just about to ask how the hell Sherlock _knows_ such a date when he's interrupted. "Your ID card too, I might need it."

He frowns. "Don't you usually just _take_ that without me knowing? I've had that thing issued more times than the rest of the Met put together; why are you using your manners and asking for it now?"

Sherlock watches him carefully for a moment before replying. "Because this time it's in your jacket pocket."

"It's always in my jacket pocket."

"This time you're _wearing_ your jacket."

"I'm always bloody wearing my jacket."

Then he realises too late that it's clearly because Sherlock doesn't want to touch him. He doesn't even want to get close enough to pickpocket him.

The thought causes a rush of something horrible right through his veins. It feels like disappointment mixed with his own stupidity.

"Right," he covers quickly, handing over his ID. "But just remember to give the bloody thing back."

"Of course," Sherlock replies, as though he always does. As though he doesn't have a small collection of the things at home on his mantelpiece. 

When he gets up and goes back upstairs he doesn't say goodbye, just leaves his mug there for Lestrade to wash.

 

\--------------------------

 

Whilst he's waiting that afternoon for Sherlock to return from his travels, Lestrade sees lots of things from that upstairs window. Not much goes on in the back garden of number twelve but on the street he can see just beyond that he watches the comings and goings of everyday life; women with pushchairs and screaming babies inside, kids walking home from school with ties already undone and bags slung carelessly over shoulders. He also sees a house that appears to be holding a party, the coloured paper streaming from both of the gateposts and cards up in the front window - at five o'clock people start arriving, greetings at the front door and the earnest hugging of real friends, holding on just a moment too long.

Maybe that is what real life is really like, he thinks, rather than the sterile procedure of an empty house and an exhausting job. Maybe people actually have _other people_ in their lives, and not just cold, complicated ones who might not even know _how_ to give you what you want from them.

Lestrade fingers the cool gold strip of his wedding band absent-mindedly as he listens to a muffled laugh through the wall from next door. 

The problem is that perhaps he's too far in this now to change it.

 

\----------------------------

 

At about eight o'clock, two hours after Sherlock returns, Lestrade takes him up a bowl of soup.

"I don't want it," he says. 

"I don't care; Bobby Sands - look at what happened to him." Sherlock frowns at him, not getting the reference. "Nevermind, just eat it, just a bit. You look like a skeleton."

The look he gets is indignant. "I'm _lithe."_

"I know," Lestrade replies. "I remember."

He leaves the room before Sherlock can reply to that one.

 

\------------------------

 

When he goes back an hour later, the soup bowl is empty.

"Did you just pour it out of the window?" Lestrade asks, picking up the tray. In the darkness, Sherlock is sitting with the tiniest torch known to man trained on some sort of textbook in front of him. Probably what passes for light reading. He also keeps glancing out of the window every few moments; it looks dead outside to Lestrade.

"No," Sherlock replies, voice lazy. "It was the toilet."

"Lovely."

Sherlock eventually looks up; in the small glow from the torch Lestrade can't be sure whether he's smiling or not. "Be grateful, I usually just leave John to throw it away."

"So I should thank my lucky stars then, should I?" Lestrade asks, putting the tray back down and sitting on the floor. The carpet isn't the cleanest thing in the world but they still don't have a chair in here. 

He's not sure if he's welcome or not, but it's been a long day and it's strange being in the house with someone yet never talking to them. Plus he _likes_ talking to Sherlock. Always has.

"There was the disastrous occasion on which he attempted to spoon-feed me," Sherlock says, looking out of the window. Oddly, Lestrade feels a twinge of jealousy.

"So are you going to tell me, then? Why we're here?"

"Why _I'm_ here," Sherlock corrects. "We both know why you're here." 

If there's a connotation in that, Lestrade ignores it. "Alright, why _you're_ here."

"No, I'm not."

"I could do you for withholding evidence?" Lestrade suggests, and this time Sherlock really does smile, smug and knowing. 

"Nice try, no evidential proof of a crime of any kind - doesn't work when the arresting officer doesn't know what he's arresting for."

"So it's not an affair then?"

Sherlock looks over across the darkened room at him and lets a puzzled smile slip onto his face. "You think I do affairs like some sort of seedy private detective?"

"Why else are we recording the comings and goings of Bicycle Man?"

"Oh, how sweet," Sherlock smirks. "You've named him."

"Shut up. Is he taking something there?"

"Like what?"

"Drugs, guns, weapons?"

"To a modest family home in Brighton? No, I don't think so."

"Planning something then, terrorism."

Sherlock smirks at him again. "As much as I enjoy 'Guess The Crime', I'm really not going to tell you."

Lestrade feels like sulking. "So how come John's not here with you? I didn't think you worked alone anymore."

"I _rarely_ work alone," Sherlock says, glancing back out of the window, peering for a moment and then making a note on the top of his textbook with a pencil. "But this case doesn't require two people."

"Except when I have to sit at the window for hours while you go out."

Sherlock looks back across the room at Lestrade, eyes shrewd. He doesn't reply to that.

After a few minutes it becomes clear that Sherlock is more than happy to just sit in silence; he seems to slip away into his own world, making urgent, jagged notes every now and then on the top of his book, eyes skimming over the text at a speed Lestrade marvels at inwardly. He decides Sherlock must be an awfully strange person to live with, a unit that is at once self contained and yet also so reliant upon outsiders for stimuli and the occasional menial task. He knows he's probably not an ideal flatmate himself, spending more time at work than at home and with a tendency to leave washing in piles here and there on the landing but... well, Sherlock is really something else.

In the quiet darkness of the bedroom Lestrade realises sadly that he could probably get used to this.

"You used to work faster without him."

Sherlock looks up sharply at that, though he doesn't look offended, merely curious. "Did I?"

"You used to be more of a pain though," Lestrade concedes, smiling a little to soften the blow of his previous comment. "He's filed down some of your sharp edges."

"Nonsense," Sherlock replies, but the silence that drips on after it suggests he knows that's probably the truth. Lestrade isn't sure how he feels - after recent events - about the fact it's John that has finally brought out an echo of Sherlock's human side and not... well, anyone else.

"Donovan still calls him your puppy dog."

Lestrade knew this would raise a smile and he was right. "Do tell her not to scratch behind his ears, he doesn't like that."

He leans back against the wall behind him, surveys Sherlock carefully from across the room. "How come you didn't tell him about the drugs?"

The look he gets in return is slightly searching. "Oddly enough it's not the first thing I announce about myself to strangers."

"Didn't he ever ask how you came to know me in the first place?"

"John isn't the prying sort," Sherlock replies, finally flipping closed his textbook and laying it down. He checks the window again. "I suspect he probably wonders about it but would never ask - he's refreshingly old fashioned when it comes to privacy."

"Whereas you deduced the most intimate details of his life the moment you saw him."

Sherlock smirks. "Naturally."

"Has he called you a smug git yet?"

The resulting huff of breath that sounds like a laugh in the dark warms something icy that has been sitting far too long in Lestrade's chest. Three weeks approximately. "Not yet, no."

"Let me do it for him, then."

"Okay."

"You're a smug git."

"Thank you."

Sherlock smiles at him and Lestrade returns it easily. 

There are several long moments of comfortable silence before Lestrade speaks again, picking at a stitch that is fraying on the bottom of his shirt. "Mycroft thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread, you know."

Sherlock looks away from the window quickly, his features lit by the moonlight, sharpening his cheekbones. "You're in contact with Mycroft?"

"Of course I'm in contact with Mycroft," Lestrade shrugs. "He turns up in my bloody office every time I finish a case with you. Always going on about what a stablising influence John has been on his wayward little brother."

Sherlock's suspicion seems to morph into amusement. "They both have that achingly dull loyalty to Queen and country; very tedious. I think Mycroft feels he's found a an ally."

"Whereas really that's you."

Sherlock takes one of those deep, searching looks and squints slightly through the darkness. "You don't like him."

Lestrade shakes his head, "He's alright, a bit annoying when he strides about with that umbrella demanding access to my filing cabinets but - "

"Not Mycroft, John."

The faintest sheen of sweat breaks out on Lestrade's brow despite the cold. Sherlock is like a top-of-the-range lie detector machine. "Of course I do. He's certainly easier to get on with than you."

"Covering a lie with an insult," Sherlock remarks, more of a statement of fact uttered to the air than a reply. His voice doesn't have any emotion in it though, it really is merely an observation. "No need to pretend to like him just for me; I won't be offended, I assure you."

"I'm not - It wasn't a lie."

"No," Sherlock deadpans, "And I think Anderson is a sparkling example of an individual. Why is it that humans feel the need to appear friendly and genial all the time? I frequently meet people I dislike - the world is full of unpleasant creatures, personalities that don't match or simply clash altogether. No shame in admitting that."

"I don't - I don't dislike John," Lestrade says, slightly fazed by Sherlock's calm logic. 

"What else, then? You disapprove of his military background?"

"What? No!" 

Sherlock stares for a minute, and Lestrade catches the exact moment that clever little brain of his hits on the truth. It's the eureka moment, the precise second of deduction he's seen hundreds of times on cases when Sherlock finally works things out. And he's never yet been wrong.

"You're jealous of him."

"Piss off."

At that moment Lestrade would be grateful of a smug look or even a scathing witty retort but instead Sherlock says nothing. They simply sit there, looking at each other until he can't take it anymore and Lestrade folds, reaching for the tray he set down earlier.

"I'm going to get some coffee."

"Two sugars and a dash of milk for me."

"What?" He turns in the doorway, light from the bathroom opposite stinging his eyes after sitting in the darkness for so long. 

"I have a dash of milk sometimes in the evenings. I find it helps me think."

"Right."

And he turns and takes the tray downstairs, feeling like he failed the lie detector miserably. 

\-----------------

When he goes back up - hopefully more composed - Lestrade takes the paper with him. He's half considering just going to bed, dumping the coffee preferably in Sherlock's smug little lap and going to camp out on the dubious-looking mattress in the front room. But when he gets back and Sherlock is still sitting patiently, watching the window with his textbook cast aside on the floor, Lestrade is tempted to stay.

"No biscuits?" Sherlock asks, when he hands him the mug.

"You didn't say you wanted any biscuits."

"I assumed biscuits were part of the package - evening coffee without biscuits is barbaric, isn't it?"

Lestrade sighs. "Fine, hang on."

He returns with the Hobnobs a moment later and finds Sherlock already has the paper open and folded at the crossword, studying the clues.

"Oi," he says, snatching the paper back and handing the biscuits over.

"I was only trying to be helpful," Sherlock says. "You don't seem capable of finishing one without assistance."

"I fell asleep; I do usually cope on my own without you, you know."

"I bet you fill in the empty squares with random letters when you get down to the final few clues," Sherlock mutters, dunking a Hobnob. Lestrade sincerely hopes the room is dark enough to hide the guilty blush covering his cheeks.

"Shut up."

He lasts all of ten minutes alone with the crossword before he sighs loudly in frustration.

"Go on," Sherlock says, sounding pleased as he glances out of the window. "Do what you do best, Lestrade - consult me."

"Do you want this paper thrown at your head?"

Sherlock smiles.

"Fine, twenty-one down: Was brooding for bike with an engine, five letters."

"Moped."

Lestrade tries not to shake his head as he writes the answer in; he should have known he'd be perfect at this too. At least his human interaction falls way below zero.

"Four across: Hold back part of a song, seven letters."

"Refrain."

"I don't know why I'm surprised, you probably set the bloody thing..."

Sherlock doesn't answer that; Lestrade honestly wouldn't put it past him. He bets Sherlock has some very odd hobbies in his spare time.

"Okay, eight across, Capitalism anywhere has charms, eight letters."

"Talisman."

He's dashing the letters across the page into the squares when Sherlock interrupts him. "That's interesting."

"What is?"

"It's not the most difficult clues that you have trouble with; I saw that list and there were far worse there that you've already filled in. You're actually weakest at the most obvious ones."

Lestrade frowns at him. "So?"

"Suggests you used to pick up the crossword after someone else had gone through the easier clues, hence now it's the easy ones that tax you. Hannah?"

A sharp, painful memory of filling in the clues she couldn't manage on lazy Sunday mornings in bed as she lay beside him on the phone to her mum flashes unexpectedly in Lestrade's mind. He'd forgotten about that, about the silly little things. It hurts.

"Yeah."

Sherlock says nothing, just nods and looks away out of the window. Suddenly Lestrade doesn't feel like finishing the crossword anymore.

"Hey," he says after a minute. "You've still got my credit card."

"I was hoping you wouldn't remember," Sherlock drawls, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his wallet. The card is tucked neatly into the space a picture of a loved one should be. "I was planning a shopping spree in Harrods."

"Lovely; do a nice line in unusual equipment for gruesome science experiments, do they?"

"I was thinking more a wealth of chintz furniture, just to annoy John."

Lestrade grins at him as he pockets the card. 

"Or I could just run up the bill on your Waterstones account."

"How d'you know I've got a Waterstones account?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes as though it's all dreadfully simple. "Very little wear and tear at the Chip end of your card which suggests you use it more online or over the phone than you do in person, plus a faint nail scratch line beneath the numbers on the front where you trace the digits as you key it in to the payment box online. Your house is filled with books - though the spines on most of them are flawless, suggesting a hoarder rather than a reader - and even though you know you can get them cheaper at Amazon you're the type of person who tries to preserve the smaller stores and high street bookshops. Could have been WH Smith but Waterstones is more obvious."

"You got all that from my credit card?"

"Yes. That and the fact you don't cut much cocaine with it - no little scratch marks along the edges."

Sherlock smiles.

"That's more your area than mine."

_"Was_ my area. A detective caught me out."

Stifling a yawn that tells him it's really time for bed, Lestrade feels the edges of his lips curl up gently. "Sounds like he's rather good at his job, then."

"Hmm... I'd say more average."

They sit in silence for a little while longer in the dark until another yawn nags at Lestrade's brain. He realises he doesn't want to go, though his body is telling him he has to.

"Right, I'm going to get some sleep, then."

"Goodnight," Sherlock says, already looking away out of the window. It's uncomfortable suddenly, when it hasn't been all night. Damn beds and their connotations.

"Night," he replies, pushing himself to his feet.

In the front bedroom next door he gingerly lies down on the bare mattress and pulls the heavy bulk of his outdoor coat over him. The heater is downstairs and he has no doubt that he'll wake up in the night shivering, but he's too tired to go down and get it now and the gentle scratching noise of Sherlock gone back to writing in his textbook next door is lulling him to sleep.

The last thing he thinks about before he drops off is Sherlock sitting forward on his sofa, telling him he's never done anything before, waiting for Lestrade to kiss him. The sharp tang of whisky on his tongue and the heavy weight of arousal settling right through his body are the two things that follow him into sleep.

 

\--------------------------

 

Their last full day together passes without much note; Sherlock is distracted in the morning, dashes out around eleven calling something about keeping a guard on the window as he goes and Lestrade faithfully takes himself (and his cereal) upstairs to sit and wait for Bicycle Man.

Then at midday Mr Sharma calls around, reminds Lestrade (as if he didn't know) that they have to be gone tomorrow, before eleven. It's only been a matter of days but already he feels like he's got used to living with someone else again, sharing the space, making two cups of coffee instead of one. Lestrade ignores the fact that he doesn't want to go back to London, or his job.

"We have a new lead," Sherlock announces as he sweeps back in the house at just after five. He's been back and gone out again since eleven, each time in a whirlwind, each time with his head full of something he still isn't telling Lestrade.

"We?"

"Yes, we."

Sherlock puts his hand out in impatience and Lestrade grabs it, lets himself be pulled up from his space on the floor by the window.

"Has he been back?" Sherlock asks in a rush, voice all sharp and demanding.

"Yes."

"What time?"

"Two minutes past three, then gone again by half past."

"Yes!" Sherlock grins, congratulating himself on something as he crosses the room. "Come on, part two."

Even though he doesn't know what the hell is going on, Lestrade follows him out of the bedroom. He wonders if John ever knows any more than this on the cases he never sees, wonders if this is how John feels. Wonders why the hand Sherlock pulled him up by is still tingling.

"What happens in part two?"

"We sit in your car," Sherlock announces. "Where are the keys?"

"My car?" Lestrade produces the key from his pocket and before he can answer Sherlock is away in some manic spurt of energy, out of the door and off down the road. Lestrade follows, pulling on the coat he slept under last night.

An hour later they're still in the car and the manic energy appears to have died down a little.

"Why are we here again?" Lestrade asks, checking the road behind them for signs of life. Nothing.

"If I'm right," Sherlock says, then turns to him pointedly, "And I usually am - "

"You are."

" - Then Bicycle Man will be back. With an accomplice."

"And you're still not going to tell me who Bicycle Man is?"

"I don't even know myself yet," Sherlock says, checking his watch. "But I'll have a better idea when I see who he's with."

None of this makes any sense to Lestrade, but he's already stopped pretending he's not enjoying all this. He _likes_ being caught up in the middle of Sherlock's whirlwind. He likes seeing him at work, doing what he does best, solving mysteries. He likes being around him when he's full of questions and answers that seem to fascinate him endlessly.

He just likes being around him.

"Am I needed for the next ten minutes?" Lestrade asks. Immediately Sherlock turns to him and frowns.

"No, why? Where are you going?"

He looks slightly petulant to be losing his playmate.

Lestrade gets out of the car and approximately seven and a half minutes later, he's back.

"Coffee and biscuits," Sherlock says, and there is a keen spark of appreciation in his eyes as he takes the mug and plate from Lestrade's hands. "You'd make someone a fine barista."

"Don't get used to it," Lestrade replies. "I'm not making you any more until you tell me what this case is actually all about."

That's a lie, of course. Three cups of coffee, half a pack of biscuits and a completed crossword later, they're no closer to finding out who Bicycle Man is. It's just after eleven and the street is pitch black, has been for hours. Watching the end of the road, Sherlock has been convinced he'll turn up but he never has.

"Maybe he's not coming back," Lestrade suggests, drawing absentminded circles on the window of the passenger door with his fingers. He's let Sherlock take the driving seat but kept tight hold of the keys.

"He's playing a waiting game," Sherlock says. He's stayed focused and alert all evening whereas Lestrade has felt himself growing ever more bored. His capacity for waiting and sitting doing nothing has been tested over the past few days; it's the one thing he's getting tired of.

"It's bloody freezing in here," he complains, pulling his coat closer around him. The cold November night is getting to him and their breath is now condensing in front of them in the small interior of the car. Lestrade is thinking of just giving up and announcing he's going back inside until - 

"Why did you agree to do this?"

Sherlock's voice is low and serious and he's looking away down to the end of the quiet, empty road. In the houses all around them people are asleep, curled around their loved ones.

"I think you'll find sitting in the car was your idea. You said - "

"I mean Brighton, not the car." Sherlock clicks his tongue, exasperated with the misunderstanding.

"If I hadn't come then Sharma would never - "

"The real reason."

Lestrade turns to look at Sherlock and finds him still looking away. It's maddening trying to make eye contact with someone who constantly grapples for new levels of stubborn.

"So that you wouldn't tell me to piss off next time I needed you for a case."

It's half true. Almost true. Barely.

"Is that all?"

The crossword that they completed together is lying on the dashboard, edges of the paper curled up slightly from the damp mist their breathing has created on the windows. The answers all blur into one big jumble if he stares at it for long enough, pen blends in to paper.

"No."

There's something about the truth actually being said that makes Lestrade relax a little bit, and he realises Sherlock's arm is resting elegantly against the edge of the driver's seat. It's close enough to touch, and in the quiet of the car, Lestrade does.

At first Sherlock flinches at the feel of fingers on his wrist, then as Lestrade edges the sleeve of his shirt back to expose more skin, he turns his arm slightly, giving him room. Though he never looks away from staring at the street outside, Lestrade knows he can feel it.

He lets his nails run gently over the soft, vulnerable skin of Sherlock's inner forearm, down towards the crease of his elbow and back up, slow and lazy. He lingers for a moment on the pulse point, that little train of blue beneath the skin and feels the blood moving under there, keeping him going. Then Lestrade lets his short nails run again, creating goosebumps on the curve of Sherlock's arm, the hairs rising a little, standing on end. 

When he feels Sherlock shiver, Lestrade lets his fingers dip down into the open basin of his palm, following the creases and lines on his skin, watching as those long, skillful digits splay outwards, expanding to give Lestrade more room to move. He traces each one of the fingers with his own, sliding up to the tip, tracing his fingerprints and then back down until he's covered all of the skin available to him. His fingers rest in the middle of Sherlock's palm, tickling him gently, creating circles until Lestrade hears a sharp breath in and looks up.

Now Sherlock's looking at him.

"Are you trying to drive me mad?"

"This from the man who attempts to drive everyone mad," Lestrade points out, letting his fingers run back up to Sherlock's wrist, drifting over where his skin is softest. He gets a kick of satisfaction out of watching Sherlock arch his arm towards him.

"You're distracting me."

"Shall I stop?" Lestrade asks. There is a brief moment in which he watches Sherlock's eyes flick down to his mouth and something kicks in his belly, hard and powerful.

"No."

"The thing is," Lestrade notes, watching his fingers trail leisurely now that they have permission; up Sherlock's arm and back down, carefully and purposefully grazing the outside of his thigh as they go. "There's going to come a point when I want to do this to more of you than just your arm."

He glances back up at Sherlock, who is still watching him. "You're being purposefully maddening now, aren't you?"

"Again, any time you want me to stop..." Lestrade offers. 

Sighing as though he's giving into something really rather annoying, Sherlock shuts his eyes as he focuses on the sensation and then shifts a little in his seat as the edge of his thigh is grazed again, more deliberate than before. He moves _into_ the sensation, and Lestrade watches all of this and realises he's no longer cold. The air in the car now almost feels warm and stuffy.

"Did you want me to stay?"

Sherlock's eyes fly open at the same time as his thigh shifts, parting his knees to get closer to the grazing fingers and because they happen at the same time Lestrade can't be sure whether it's an involuntary move or not.

"Not at first."

Sometimes, even though he's known him five years, the sharp honesty still stings a little.

"Thanks."

Sherlock considers him carefully in the darkness, moves his thigh a fraction more into the pressure of Lestrade's nails.

"It was uncomfortable."

"That's what happens when two people have sex and one of them buggers off mid-shower," Lestrade answers, fingers slipping off the edge of Sherlock's forearm and pressing against the much firmer curve of his thigh.

"I realised you'd want to talk," Sherlock answers. He's not sure if it's a lie or not.

"What made you think that?"

"That's what people _do_ isn't it?" Sherlock sighs, like it's all desperately tedious and unnecessary. "Babble on about meaning and consequences and how they _feel_ about things."

Lestrade smiles slightly, though he doesn't know why. This isn't a smiling matter - any of it, because what he's about to say is a lie. "It was just sex, it didn't mean anything."

If the Human Lie Detector guesses this isn't the truth, he doesn't say anything about it. "My experience in these matters isn't great."

As he drags his fingers lazily over the soft fabric of Sherlock's trousers, Lestrade gets a sudden fearful feeling in his chest. "Did you tell John about it?"

Sherlock turns his head towards him sharply, looking almost alarmed. "No; why would you think I would?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

"You assume I'd avoid discussing the issue with you but instead discuss it with a figure outside the situation?"

"It's what people often do," Lestrade points out.

"How idiotic," Sherlock remarks, then frowns in genuine wonder. "Do people know this is idiotic?"

"I think so; doesn't stop them, though."

"No, I didn't discuss it with John; he may have put it in his blog and then where would we be?"

"Yeah well, half of the Met think they know after you announced yourself on the phone to Donovan. Thanks for that."

"You didn't confirm or deny?"

"Of course not." Lestrade lets his fingers slip up slightly and Sherlock angles his knee, shifts his hips so that he has more room. He's definitely not pushing him off. "On the plus side I think she respects you a bit more now, regards you as less of a freak."

"She bases her opinions on people related to how much casual sex they have?" Sherlock mutters. "How lovely. Would I have attained more normality points had it been with Anderson, do you think?"

"Possibly. Shall I let him know you're interested?"

Sherlock's smile is tight but visible in the orange glow from the streetlight outside. "Certainly not."

Lestrade lets his fingers trail up towards Sherlock's knee and then back down again, dangerously close to the top of his thigh, to the place he really wants to touch. His fingertips tingle with the constant brush against the fine cotton and he realises Sherlock is still watching him, eyes alert but turning slowly darker. He has no idea why they're still in the car and not inside on that mattress or the chair or any flat surface available. 

"Did you imagine this would happen?"

Lestrade is amazed Sherlock can be both ruthlessly inquisitive and yet also aroused. He doesn't think he could manage it himself.

"No," he lies. Hoped, yes. "And nothing's happened yet."

"You have your hand on my thigh," Sherlock points out. "This is not a situation I find myself in often, though we discussed that at some length three weeks ago. _Is_ anything going to happen?"

The fact that he asks feels to Lestrade like the most human thing Sherlock has done all week.

"I don't know; do you _want_ anything to happen?"

"Surprisingly, yes," Sherlock replies. "Again, not a situation I find myself in very often."

Lestrade presses his fingers in slightly harder as he moves up Sherlock's thigh again and hears a sharp exhale in response. After a second, Sherlock speaks with a distinct impatience in his voice. "You're very slow about doing what you mean to do, aren't you?"

He finds himself smiling and Lestrade gives Sherlock a look. "Being quick when it comes to sex isn't generally a good quality."

There is a petulant, frustrated sort of grunt and Sherlock moves his knee even further, his legs now almost splayed in order to offer himself up. "Tease."

"Impatient."

For the first time Lestrade lets his fingers wander down to Sherlock's inner thigh. It's warm there from sitting still all night and he can feel muscles tense and release underneath his fingers as he moves.

"Did _you_ imagine this would happen?"

Sherlock swallows loudly, like he's trying to keep it together. Lestrade can hardly believe it. "I knew there was a possibility. It stands to reason that a thing that has occurred once can occur again and I appear to have..." he considers, "A _bodily_ response to you now."

He can barely hold back a grin. "Is that your way of saying you fancy me?"

"Don't look so smug," Sherlock replies, but Lestrade does so anyway. "I suspect it's not as base as that, more sense-memory."

"You always have to be different, don't you?" Lestrade asks, curling his short nails into expensive fabric as he moves down from Sherlock's knee. He means to stop before he goes too far, but then he feels a hand covering his, fingers sliding into the perfect spaces until he's shifted up much higher and he can clearly feel how achingly hard Sherlock is. It sends an instant reaction between his own thighs and he catches Sherlock's eyes in the near darkness of the car.

"At least I'm not _slow_ at everything."

The irony of this isn't lost on Lestrade (three weeks ago he was a twenty-eight year old virgin) but his brain is too busy collapsing with desire to consider any effective response. Instead he just palms Sherlock through his trousers and listens to him groan.

"Lestrade," Sherlock says, and his voice sounds oddly strangled, as though he's speaking through gritted teeth.

"Hmmm?" Lestrade replies, busy concentrating on getting him to make that sound again, the one that seems to make all his nerve endings tingle.

"You can kiss me now."

Lestrade almost smiles. Only Sherlock could make that sound like an order.

"I think I'd better take you in the house first."

Sherlock's eyes flicker open, tongue darting out to wet his lips briefly. "Why?"

"Because I'm not sure I'm going to be able to stop, Sherlock."

As though through a haze, this seems to penetrate his consciousness and Sherlock visibly pulls himself together. "Right, yes. Of course."

The night air outside hits Lestrade as soon as he steps foot onto the pavement, chilling him right down underneath the collar of his coat, chasing between the layers of his shirt and his skin. He feels himself shiver, glad when he hears the beep of the car lock behind them and Sherlock's footsteps on the path.

Inside the house the meagre warmth they'd been living in inside the car is gone and the hallway is in utter darkness, making it seem all the more intense when Sherlock shuts the door behind them and moves towards Lestrade with ease born of confidence rather than practice. He can see the perfect cupid's bow of Sherlock's lips in the poor light filtering in from the glass panels in the door and Lestrade wastes no time cupping that sharp jawline, thumb brushing a perfect cheekbone as he pulls Sherlock closer, kisses his mouth.

He tastes like coffee and the sweet trace of biscuits and Lestrade can smell the expensive brand of soap he bought a few nights ago, palm grazing the faintest trace of stubble; he hasn't seen Sherlock shave since they got here but he suspects he doesn't have to, not that much. His mouth is warm and soft and eager and for a moment Lestrade ignores everything but the kiss. A hand has found it's way to his hip, another to the back of his neck and the cold feeling of fingers on his warm skin make him shiver in a good way, sharpening the heat from Sherlock's mouth. He doesn't think a kiss has ever felt so satisfying, so long-awaited. 

"Bed," Sherlock says against his lips.

"There is no bed," Lestrade reminds him, clinging on to the front lapels of Sherlock's greatcoat, pulling him back when he tries to move towards the stairs. "It's just a mattress on the floor."

"Unless you want me to have sex with you in this filthy hallway, it's going to have to do," Sherlock replies, and gives a sharp nip to Lestrade's bottom lip as he does so. 

It's hardly ideal but they head up the stairs, Lestrade feeling clumsy and shutting off the voice in his head that reminds him he lied to Sherlock about this. He told him it didn't mean anything. 

But he'll think about that later.

In the front bedroom Sherlock removes his coat and drops it down over the centre of the mattress. "Better than nothing," he says, more to himself than Lestrade, and he watches as Sherlock removes his shoes elegantly; he moves like he's never been anything less than utterly comfortable in his own skin and it's attractive. Lestrade was once an awkward teenager - he suspects Sherlock never was.

"Are you going to stand there all night and watch?" Sherlock asks, now seated on the mattress. "I'm sure it would be sufficiently pleasant but from my limited experience I've found it's more enjoyable when you actually join in."

"Yeah, course." Lestrade drops his coat on the floor beside his other things, shrugs out of his jacket and shoes and lies down on his side. Sherlock is on his back beside him, both of them spread out like it's some sort of bastardised country picnic.

"It's freezing," Lestrade mutters, though really his eyes are on Sherlock's mouth, lips red and bruised from their kiss downstairs. He reaches out a hand and slips open the first few buttons of Sherlock's shirt, enough so that he can slip his fingers inside, graze his nails over already hard nipples. The sharp inhalation of breath Sherlock makes when he does it, however, goes some small way to warming him.

When Lestrade leans down to kiss him, Sherlock's breath comes hot and fast against his mouth, a hand tangling in the short strands at the back of his hair keeping him closer in case he tries to pull away from the kiss. As if he would. And Sherlock hums briefly with pleasure at the delicious slide of tongues. It sends a pool of something warm and molten into Lestrade's stomach and his knee slides up, pushing between Sherlock's legs until somehow he's half on top. The hand on the back of his neck is pulling him down closer too, and he forgets all rational thought for a while, abandoning himself to the pin-sharp sensations.

"God..." Sherlock breathes, sounding almost startled as he slips a hand around to the back of Lestrade's thigh, arching into him. It must feel good because Lestrade feels him shiver - physically shiver - against him, and the kiss becomes less coordinated, like Sherlock's breathing and the hand in his hair.

Flicking the shirt open the rest of the way, Lestrade moves down, kissing the newly exposed skin of Sherlock's collarbone, delighting in the fingers that scrunch in his hair in pleasure as he tugs at one nipple with his teeth. A hand that knows very much what it wants slips down the back of his trousers onto his behind, pulling him in closer, encouraging him to rock his hips. As soon as he does, feeling Sherlock hard against his thigh, Lestrade hears a bitten-off groan from above him and he looks up. Sherlock is watching him, still urging him closer and then away again with the fingers digging in the soft flesh of his backside.

"You're rather good at this."

"Thank you," Lestrade replies, arching up to kiss him softly on the mouth. As he does their bodies slip together again and he feels a roll of heat in his stomach. "I take my compliments where I can get them with you."

"Don't get too used to it," Sherlock breathes, the sound jagged and faltering in the silence as he obviously struggles to keep his eyes open. Lestrade kisses everywhere he can find, over the whorl of his ear, up into his hair and back down over the line of his jaw until he glances up again and finds he's surrendered, eyes shut.

Both of his hands now nestled down the back of Lestrade's trousers, Sherlock fits them closer together, making sure that the rolling of their hips in sharp rhythm is relentless. It suits Lestrade to let it be slow and lazy as he ducks his head down to mouth at the side of Sherlock's neck, covering him in nips and bites that cause gooseflesh to appear on the skin beneath him. He gets a hint of that expensive soap again and something very 221b on the open collar of Sherlock's shirt reminding him of countless hours during cases sitting watching that familiar shape pace the living room or rest against the fire. He doesn't know now quite how he did without _this,_ as Sherlock presses hard against him, almost aching against his thigh. The feeling makes him warm right through, utterly forgetting the bare mattress and the drafty house and the freezing November night outside.

Feeling a tugging at the front of his trousers Lestrade realises that Sherlock is attempting to undo his button. He assembles his mind long enough to reach down and help, shrug out of his pants and underwear. He's unable to stop the low groan in the back of his throat when Sherlock's fingers close around him, thumb brushing over his head.

" _Jesus,_ Sherlock," he has time to say just before Sherlock kisses him again, assaulting his senses twice as his tongue runs carefully along Lestrade's bottom lip whilst his wrist also moves. It's precise and studied and just the way Lestrade likes it, which he thinks Sherlock must have remembered. Because he's an evil genius like that.

His hips are still moving, pushing himself into Sherlock's fist as they thrust against each other, but it was over too quickly this way last time and Lestrade has other ideas. He's had enough lonely nights lying in his own bed imagining this to know how he wants it to go.

Breaking the kiss he manages to sit up, fingers going instinctively to the fly of Sherlock's trousers, making short work of the button and zip as Sherlock continues to stroke him carefully. 

"If you want this to last longer than the next three minutes you're going to have to stop that," he says, and Sherlock glances up at him as though he's thinking about it. 

"Fine," he replies, and there is that familiar petulant edge to his voice. Lestrade leans down and nips at his bottom lip in reproval.

"Lift."

Sherlock lifts his hips just enough for Lestrade to tug his trousers down along with his underwear, then frees himself of his own shirt whilst he's at it. Lazy, Sherlock pulls his arms out of his without getting up so that it's lying beneath him like a particularly expensive blanket.

When they move together again minus their clothes, the sensations cause a succession of fireworks in Lestrade's stomach. He dips down and kisses Sherlock's neck whilst hands start on his hips and run lightly up his sides, turning in to cover both of his nipples. He mutters something filthy into the soft space beneath Sherlock's ear as fingertips twist at him, causing another burst of sparks. The weight of arousal sitting very low in his stomach feels heavy and aching as he pushes against the soft curve of a thigh and Sherlock slides his foot up over the back of Lestrade's calf, hooking him in as though warning him not to stop. As if he could.

Braced on his hands resting either side of Sherlock's head, Lestrade moves his mouth back up to kiss him properly and feels Sherlock arch up to meet him, raising his chin to catch Lestrade's lips. But he holds himself just a tiny bit away, making Sherlock work for it, dipping tantalisingly close to breath against his mouth and then away until after a few minutes frustration wins out and both of Sherlock's hands fly up into Lestrade's short hair to drag him down. He tilts his head to angle their lips together, sliding against him over and over again until the feeling is so much Lestrade feels his arms begin to shake, giving in.

Unable to stay his desire to do it any longer, Lestrade breaks away and kisses quick, open-mouthed kisses away down Sherlock's chin, over his chest and down across his stomach. He hears Sherlock groan as he realises what's going to happen and then Lestrade swiftly takes him in his mouth, getting a kick of pleasure in his belly as he remembers how delicious this is, feeling Sherlock squirming underneath him. Hands thread themselves into his hair and Lestrade does something unspeakable with his tongue before listening to Sherlock's sharp gasp of breath that turns into a jagged moan, clearly involuntary.

Aware of how long this lasted the last time he did it, Lestrade pulls back carefully every time fingers begin to clasp too tightly in his hair. He draws Sherlock out until he can feel the thighs under his hands shaking slightly, then he sits up.

"Turn over."

Sherlock's eyes fly open and he frowns, but is clever enough to say nothing. He must trust implicitly because he does it, though he tucks his elbows up underneath his head and Lestrade watches as he rests on his forearms, breathing carefully and slowly. His body is elegant and graceful and ridiculously pure in the weak light of the lamp left on in the corner of the room. Sherlock's skin is as pale and unblemished as it is on his neck and Lestrade can't resist a little taste before he gets on with his plan.

Resting his hands either side of Sherlock's back, just below his elbows, Lestrade stretches his body out over Sherlock's, arching down against him and receiving a moan of approval from beneath him. He kisses those pale shoulder blades, taking his time as he moves from left to right, dipping down onto the tops of Sherlock's arms and being rewarded with a kiss from Sherlock's mouth as he turns his head to meet him. His lips are sweet after kissing cool skin and Lestrade shifts his hips from the sensation, feeling warmth blooming all along his body where their skin meets. Though he never would never admit it, he knows he's desperate to fuck Sherlock properly. He tries not to imagine the warmth and the heat of sliding inside him, because it threatens to ruin his mind.

Taking a final small bite of the back of Sherlock's neck, Lestrade eventually moves down, more confident that Sherlock can hold himself now, that he's not so close to the edge. He kisses down along the perfect rocky curve of his spine, then stops.

"Sherlock?"

Voice muffled and pulled tight, he replies. "What?"

"You alright?"

"What do you think?"

Lestrade almost laughs, manages to stop himself just in time. He's so warm he can feel the heat running right over his skin now, so he can't even imagine how Sherlock must feel. Trailing a reassuring hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh, Lestrade parts his legs easily. One hand underneath him on the point of his hip raises him slightly and then he dips down, letting his tongue run between the curve of Sherlock's cheeks.

The reaction is instant and obvious; Sherlock swears rather loudly and moans, long and deep and wavering in pitch and intensity as Lestrade swirls his tongue. He hears fingers bunch fistfuls of the edge of the mattress and traces a circle again over and over until after several long minutes Sherlock raises his hips for more, trying to get closer. He's still making an indiscernible noise in the back of his throat and Lestrade stops, still not ready for it to be over yet. 

As soon as he stretches out again, dropping a single kiss between Sherlock's shoulder blades, the body underneath him is turning over, pulling him down sharply for a kiss. Lestrade lets him have what he wants, decides he deserves it for lasting through that. He doesn't remember having that much self control the first time someone did it to him.

Sherlock kisses like he really means it, and fingers scrunch up hard in Lestrade's hair.

"Dear god," Sherlock finally says, vowels clipped and sharp against Lestrade's mouth.

"Haven't lost the power of speech, then?"

Sherlock bites at his bottom lip, sharp and nipping. "Not yet. Try again."

Lestrade smiles against him. His arousal-addled brain is trying to think of a clever reply to that when Sherlock turns them and pushes him back against the mattress. He is kissed once, firmly on the mouth before Sherlock settles between his thighs, watching Lestrade carefully for a second. Then before he knows what's happening Sherlock's mouth is on him, taking him as far down as he can and Lestrade thinks he might have gasped, very loudly, at that. His fingers slip easily into Sherlock's messy curls and he tries to concentrate on the wet, tight feeling of that mouth - that perfect, clever mouth - around him. His whole body seems to be drowning in heat now and Lestrade's thoughts are messy and confused because all he can think about is how often he imagined this and now it's _happening._ It's almost too much - _is_ suddenly too much, and Lestrade manages to say, "Sherlock, you'd better stop," in warning before it's too late. 

Sherlock does stop, but as soon as he closes fingers around him to replace his mouth Lestrade is coming, one hand still buried in Sherlock's hair, twisting his soft curls just a little bit too hard. 

He's barely had time to catch his breath before Sherlock is spread out along him like a cat demanding attention, finding Lestrade's fingers and wrapping them around himself. He kisses him back to life too, licking at his lips until Lestrade lets him in. They're so close together that he feels it when Sherlock comes against him, shuddering with the force, hands gripping at Lestrade's waist.

They lie in something of a messy pile, too exhausted to speak. Three weeks of agonising briefly over for Lestrade and two nights without sleep for Sherlock quickly take them, and Lestrade drops off with the feel of a leg thrown over his, warm and reassuring and possessive.

 

\------------------------

 

He wakes up alone.

The bed is a horrible mess and half his clothes appear to be gone, either scattered to the four corners of the room or missing completely. Pulling on his trousers without any underwear, Lestrade checks his watch - 9:15am - and wanders onto the landing.

At the door to the back bedroom he finds Sherlock sat at the window. He's wearing Lestrade's shirt and coat. He looks warm.

"I know who Bicycle Man is."

A strong surge of relief dropping in his stomach, Lestrade yawns. "And?"

"And what?"

"Well, who is he?"

Sherlock uncurls himself from the floor, long limbs elegant and curls falling perfectly over his eyes. He looks good enough to touch in Lestrade's clothes, but he resists. Barely.

"I'm not telling you," Sherlock replies, coming to the door. Lestrade half expects a kiss, but doesn't get one.

"Will I want to arrest him?"

"No," Sherlock says, sounding as though the outcome of the case has bored him to death. It probably has. "Nothing as interesting as that."

Then he pushes past Lestrade and begins to head down the stairs. 

"Are you making breakfast?" He calls, and Lestrade tingles a little from the kiss that never happened. He tries to ignore his own disappointment. Standing at the top of the stairs with the quiet house around him and the sound of Sherlock moving around downstairs he wonders what - if anything - has changed. 

Then he's snapped out of his thoughts by the appearance of those now familiar limbs still wrapped in his coat on the bottom step. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"I'm going to need breakfast, we have to be out in two hours."

"Right."

Still dazed, Lestrade starts down the stairs.

"Wait!"

"What?" He frowns, foot poised on the stair.

"Put a shirt on, you'll frighten the neighbours."

And with that Sherlock is gone to sit in the kitchen. Awaiting his breakfast.

There's nothing Lestrade can do but go and pull on Sherlock's shirt from the bed, still warm and crumpled and bringing him memories of the night before.


End file.
